I used to write sonnets all the time. This one, Salads, appears to be the 2nd of some sequence or other. The difficulty of writing a sonnet is often exaggerated. And the whole thing is of course easier if you give up the sonnet's conventional vise-like rhyme scheme--as I have done here.
All you really need to write a sonnet is a knife, a screwdriver and 14 lines of space.
SONNET 2: Salads
Our salad histories are hidden
way below the infinite creaking
of table space: you need tact
to negotiate the nearness of spheres
the round things of salad, tomatoes, radishes
leaves like a forest tract: lettuce
pull up a chair; be undeniable of knife
or tyne; a salad is all imposition
nothing aeronautical here, all cucumber rafts
stepping-stone salad curled in its gleaming
the summer has gone to seed, died
crackling like the sugar edges of spoons
there’s lighthouse life after this green glare
nothing left to breathe but vegetable air
